Washing Doorknobs

The glass doorknobs turn no differently.But every DecemberI polish them with vinegar water and cotton.Another year ends.This one, I ate Kyoto picklesand touched, in Xi’an, a stone turtle’s face,cold as stone, as turtle.I could not read the fortune carved into its shellor hear what it had raised its headto listen for, such a long time.Around it, the madness of empires continued,an unbitted horse that runs for a thousand milesbetween grazing.Around us, the madness of empires continues.How happy we are,how unhappy we are, doesn’t matter.The stone turtle listens. The famished horse runs.Turning doorknobs, one year enters another.

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